Time, Time, and Time Again
by Pestiset
Summary: The Chamber of the Ordeal reflects on times past, as its end draws near. One-shot.


Time, and Time, and Time again.

A/N: The Chamber remembers times and people past.

_It was the end of an era. The royal palace was slowly being dismantled stone by stone, and the Chamber knew it did not have much time left. It exhaled a long sigh. The worship of the Gods had failed, as had magic. The world was one of monotheism, and superstition. Anything viewed as 'magic' was considered inherently evil, and anyone who remained who was able to wield the power of ages past was thrown on a pyre. It knew that in centuries to come, this would all be viewed as fantasy, not legend, or even myth. Tortall was doomed to be forgotten. But, the Chamber never forgot. And as the walls of the chapel began to fall, it remembered those that stood out from the ages the clearest. _

He knelt in front of the door to the chamber. He didn't meditate, what was the point? The previous eight years had fuelled his inherent arrogance; he knew he would be the best knight to ever walk Tortall. He stifled a yawn, and scratched his behind with a smirk, waiting to enter, and become the best.

And the Chamber watched, and waited.

At dawn, the heavy metal door swung open, and he walked through it with a swagger, feeling the eyes of his friends and family on his back. He would be the best, and kill the weak women who thought to stand with the men. The door swung shut behind him.

The Chamber rang his death knell, the reverberating ring of the door sending an unknown sense of dread through the watchers in the chapel.

_If the Chamber had a mouth, it would have smiled. That young one, Joren, was weak, an arrogant fool. It had enjoyed tearing his soul from his body and depositing it in the oblivion of the Black God's realm. And then, the Chamber shivered as it heard one of the workmen outside call the others to begin work on destroying the evil of the chamber. It was by no means evil, but different. Mortal minds could not understand it. The next one that it recalled thought differently however. _

She shuddered; it was cold in the chapel. Her legs were numb from kneeling, and her breath steamed in the air. She was afraid, the right for women to remain knights rested on her shoulders. As the cold dawn light filtered in through the slit windows above her head, the door to the Chamber creaked open, and she was gestured in by the attending priests.

The door slammed shut behind her, and she was left in darkness. She could sense a presence surrounding her, and then the images began.

Wounded in battle, she lay dying, the battle raging around her. Three times a fellow Tortallan saw her lying there, gasping for air with a black fletched arrow protruding from between her breasts. Three times she was ignored.

_Flash._

She stood at the door of her home, wearing a gown, waiting for her husband to return. A huge smile crossed her face as she saw him riding around the corner. She ran to him, and he swept her up in his arms.

_Flash. _

She stands in the throne room, facing the King. She is chained, on trial for an offense she didn't commit. She is found guilty of seducing her commanding officer – lies! He raped her! She is sentenced to death, the following dawn on Traitor's Hill. As she's led away, she weeps, because the history of the Lady Knights has died with her.

_Flash._

The Chamber door swings open and she staggers out. She survived and passed the Ordeal, but as she is led back to her rooms, all she can do is whisper, "Evil, evil, evil."

_The Chamber sighed. The last image was prophetic. Five mortal years after passing her ordeal, Moraine of Naxen was executed on a false charge of seduction. With her execution, the law allowing Lady Knights was changed. It wasn't for another two centuries before the Chamber tested another woman. In a way, it was glad Alanna of Trebond was strong; it was well past time for women to bear a shield again. The women that followed her were also strong, incorruptible, tools of the Gods. It missed them. A reverberating clang echoed throughout the room. The metal door was slowly being beaten down. As the first crack appeared, the Chamber gathered its remaining power, and formed an image. Tall, midnight black hair, a strong nose; he had a dreamer's hazel eyes, one of many gifts he'd inherited from his mother. As the first workmen burst into the room, they were confronted with the image of one of Tortalls legendary heroes, leaning on a sword with a griffin embossed into the hilt. The image of Kevyn of Masbolle stared back at them. He spoke, in a voice that carried the sound of dry leaves rustling. _

"_This realm was built by the power of Gods, magic, and heroes. When you have the direst need, when the realm is collapsing, we will return, for this is the land of our birth. Until then."_

_He disappeared, and the sword clattered to the ground. One of the workmen picked it up, and reverently left the chapel holding it. In the new religion, Kevyn was worshipped as a saint, and his sword waited, for the future, and the moment of direst need. _

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